


One Last Waltz

by Himari_WinteR



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himari_WinteR/pseuds/Himari_WinteR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different kind of love story. Spectral, erotic. EdithXThomas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

To her relief, no one had offered her a cup of tea in well over a year.

The last time an earnest serving girl offered her a cup and saucer, Edith knocked them both to the floor and rushed out of the room, cutting her heels on the porcelain shards as she fled. It was her bad luck that Eunice was there to witness the entire event; no doubt it was she who'd spread the story around town. The invitations stopped coming, not that Edith minded - she was sure they'd only been extended out of pity, and couldn't stand being high society's latest charity case a moment longer.

But she'd so come to hate the smell of tea – be it fresh leaves steeping in a pot, or the bitter whiff of it lingering on a person's breath after four o'clock – she no longer kept it around, not even the smallest tin of it to dip into when entertaining guests. It didn't matter, of course – a bottle of sherry would more than suffice. She hadn't met a single Chicagoan who could turn down a nightcap, especially if it was offered on a Sunday afternoon.

Shortly after the teacup incident, Edith packed her bags and left Buffalo for Chicago, where her publisher had secured her lodgings in one of the famed Rosalie Villas. She told Alan she'd only be gone for a year – two years, tops – while she finished her new novel, and explained that the change of scenery would help her forget the horrors of Allerdale Hall. He'd done his best to appear happy for her in the weeks leading up to her departure, but the look on his face before she boarded the train said it all. Leaving won't help you forget.

Edith sat down at her writing desk and poured herself a glass of wine. Her first novel had been a huge success, celebrated by readers and critics alike. She'd come across a particularly amusing review in the local Chronicle: "Miss Cushing's novel, Crimson Peak, is a stunning achievement, a spectral love story with a heart that pounds so voraciously, the reader can feel it pulsing through every page." Fans recognized her in the street and begged her to autograph their dog-eared copies. Her publisher asked how soon she could deliver her next manuscript. She'd become the woman she always wanted to be: a successful writer who could finally stop dipping into her dwindling inheritance.

It was true; nothing in the world could make her forget what had happened. But she had to be honest: she didn't want to forget. And she felt terrible that Alan, her dearest friend, could tell.

Edith sipped her wine and stared at her trusty Underwood. The first novel came so easily, every word tickling her fingertips as she typed it onto the page, every line weaving in and out with her breath. What was this next tale to be? Another story of love gone dreadfully wrong? Another yarn about hauntings and the haunted? She was sure her publisher would appreciate a second Crimson Peak, since the original was already in its third print run, but did she really want to tread those same waters? She was afraid of being labelled a one-trick pony, even if the pony paid the bills.

Go on, she thought, her fingers circling the keys. Just write whatever comes to mind. You can always commit it to the fire if you don't like it.

She smirked. Excellent idea. Thank you, Lucille.

Eyes closed, shoulders back, she put a single word – a name – down on the page.

Thomas.

Every letter placed a kiss upon her lips. She shivered.

"That's enough for today, I think." She reached for her wine glass and swallowed its contents in one tremendous swig.


	2. Chapter 1

** Heads up - sex scene. **

 

Edith lay awake in the early hours of the morning, her thoughts wrapped up in a single memory: the memory of the one and only night she'd spent enjoying Thomas' body.

They'd taken refuge from the storm in a charming hotel in town. The very second he shut the door behind them, he lost the reticence he'd been clinging to in the weeks since they'd married. He couldn't hide his delight as she tore his shirt from his torso and welcomed her greedy fingers when she drew them down his back. He'd wanted her so desperately he hadn't even bothered to remove his trousers; instead he let her pull them down just far enough to free the part of him that ached for her the most.

The first time they made love was all ragged breathing and a tangle of limbs, and while she wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world, the moment she treasured most was the second time he reached for her that night. Ever since she moved to Chicago, no matter how exhausted she was at the end of the day, when she finally crawled into bed she summoned that second memory from the deepest recess of her mind and let it thrill her awake. Why sleep, she thought, when thinking of it is so much sweeter?

"Dearest," he whispered against her temple as she lay against him, her arm draped over his chest. "My dear, sweet girl."

"Still awake, are you?" she murmured, curling her fingers to stroke his skin.

"How can I sleep now?" He kissed her forehead. "I won't get another wink, so long as I have you in my bed."

She giggled. "I hope you don't really mean that. A brilliant engineer like you needs his rest. You don't want to fall asleep around heavy machinery." She raised her head, thinking she'd catch the kindly smile he always had on his face when he looked at her. "What's wrong?" she asked when her eyes met his mirthless gaze.

"My love," he said softly. "My dearest, truest…"

And he kissed her, and eased her back, and she heard him moan when she parted her legs to let him rock his hips against hers.

He'd let her take him, the first time; let her get on top and ride him until they both were spent. This time it was he who made every move, he who urged her to lay back and enjoy. She gasped when he traced his lips down her stomach and kissed the sweetest spot between her legs, groaned and grabbed a fistful of his hair as his mouth lingered and his hands kneaded her thighs. The sounds he made when he took her made her stomach skip. "Darling…" he grunted, seizing her wrists, pinning them to the headboard, thrusting deep inside her. "Say you're mine…"

"I'm yours," she said as she gazed into his dark blue eyes.

"You're mine… mine alone…"

"Always."

"And I'm yours… I'm yours… forever…"

She couldn't let him go, not completely - not after the way he'd said those words. She'd spent months dissecting every other aspect of their time together, trying to suss out the ugly truth from the beautiful haze of fiction, poisoning her esteem for him. But, mercifully, her mind wouldn't let her tear this one apart. She'd fled Allerdale Hall, fled her father's empty house in Buffalo, fled from every spectre she'd ever seen or known. She promised herself that that one perfect, golden memory would be the only ghost she'd ever abide by again.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck four. She laid the memory to rest and folded her hands up under her chin. So much for getting an early start tomorrow, she thought as her thoughts slowly drifted away. You won't even be up for noon.

Sleep claimed her at last. The bed sheets tucked themselves beneath her.


	3. Chapter 2

"Thank God," Edith said, pulling her glasses off the end of her nose and laying them down next to her Underwood. "I'll be right there," she called out to the visitor who'd rung her doorbell. She left her writing desk and the still-blank page on the typewriter and headed to the foyer. "Mrs. Williams, how nice of you to drop by," she said upon opening the door.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," Mrs. Williams said as Edith welcomed her inside. "I was just out for a stroll and thought I'd check in on you." She caught sight of her bird-like reflection in the hall mirror and grimaced. "Heavens, I look like death warmed over!"

"Nonsense," Edith said kindly. "You look a picture of loveliness. Please come in. Can I offer you a glass of sherry?"

"Twist my arm," Mrs. Williams said with a wink. "How's the writing going?"

"I was just about to take a break when you rang." She led her guest into the sitting room. "It's going well enough," she said, pouring out two glasses of sherry from a crystal decanter. "I'm slow to start but once I get going I'm barely able to sleep until the first draft is complete." She held a glass out to Mrs. Williams.

"You writer types are so fascinating, with your quirks. Let me tell you, nothing gets in the way of me and a good night's rest. Even your little ghost story couldn't keep me from getting a full forty winks. Though I must say, it certainly came close!" She held up her glass as if for a toast. "It's a good thing my husband keeps the liquor cabinet well stocked. Three or four sips and I'm out like a light."

"I'm starting to think offering you a drink in the middle of the day was a bad idea," Edith said with a smile.

"I can always call for a cab, don't you worry about me. That's one thing I love about being rich: money affords anyone the utmost discretion. Bottoms up." She put the glass to her lips and took a generous sip. "Now then," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "What can your readers expect from your next novel?"

Edith sat down in an easy chair opposite her guest. "I'm not quite sure yet," she replied. "I'm… waiting to see where the narrative takes me."

"Where the narrative takes you!" Mrs. Williams chuckled. "I so love artistic people. And do you know? I have a nephew with a bit of an artistic flair as well. He's an architect. Well, he's an architect for the time-being. Once his father dies he won't have to draw another roof or eaves trough ever again. His family's very well off, you see. And he's a handsome young man too. In fact, I think he's a great admirer of your work."

"Mrs. Williams, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to play matchmaker," Edith said.

"You're quite correct, I am." Edith blushed and looked away. "I only mention it because I think you two would get along quite handsomely, is all."

"Thank you, Mrs. Williams, it's… good to know you're thinking about me, but I couldn't…"

Mrs. Williams put her glass on the coffee table and reached for Edith's hand. "Edith, dear. Now I know we haven't known each other for very long, but I get the sense that you and I are kindred spirits. So, as kindred spirits, will you answer a question with absolute honesty?"

"Yes, of course."

Mrs. Williams straightened her back. "Edith, aren't you lonely living here all by yourself, no husband, no one to share your success with?"

Edith cleared her throat. "Not at all. I'm quite happy here. I have my days to myself, to do with as I please. It's… quite ideal, actually."

"But your book, Crimson Peak… I get the sense the heroine is desperate for a true love at the end of the novel. I mean, the way you wrote it was so…"

Edith chuckled. "It's just a story, Mrs. Williams. It's fiction. A dream, nothing more."

"But it's true you were married once."

Edith sighed, wishing the earth would crack open and swallow her up. If this were Allerdale Hall it just might, she thought. "It's true, I was married. But my married days are long behind me."

"So, you don't ever feel lonely?"

Edith wanted to answer her honestly. She was about to say yes, she felt lonely; she felt lonely all the time, ever since Thomas's ghost faded from her sight. She was about to say she left Buffalo for Chicago because she preferred loneliness to being haunted by the ghosts that dwelled in her father's house, because the ghosts she knew stayed in place, tied forever to the earthly surroundings where, in life, they took their very last breaths.

She was about to come clean, when she felt the cushion beneath her grow warm – deliciously warm - and the chair soften, and the air fill with a scent she thought she'd never smell again, as long as she lived: the clean musk of Thomas's skin. The heady scent of that night, when their bodies became one.

"Edith, dear?" Mrs. Williams said gently. "Are you all right?"

"No," Edith replied, her voice quivering, her hand trembling as she raised her glass to her lips. "I don't feel lonely."


	4. Chapter 3

She means well, Edith thought as she sat on the edge of her bathtub, waiting for the water to rise. Women of a certain age don't understand how any woman can refuse the prospect of a husband. Mrs. Williams lives in a dream world of happily ever after.

Mrs. Williams had never met anyone like Thomas Sharpe.

She sighed. It wasn't so long ago that she herself thought she'd found happiness with Thomas. Their romance was swift and passionate; apart from the one unpleasant moment at the party, when he deliberately insulted her talent as a writer, their courtship was picture-perfect. She couldn't have written it better if she'd tried; he was there for her in the weeks following her father's murder, rushing to her side at the drop of a hat, comforting her whenever she needed him. He let her cry until she was spent and then wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips against her neck and kissed her, whispered "I'm here, darling. I'm here."

Nothing drove her desire for him more than having him there by her side after hours of missing the people in her life who were dead and gone. She kept her maidenhood, of course, but there were moments - when he looked at her, when he held her hands, when he spoke to her with his deep and gentle voice – that almost made her forget herself.

She removed her house dress and stepped into the tub, her skin goosepimpling as the hot water surrounded her. Still a fool, Edith, she thought, thinking of him that way. No wonder you were duped so easily.

She ran through his every betrayal, to remind herself of the truth: he chose her from the other girls because her father was rich, he was responsible for his death; he lured her to England with the promise of a loving, happy marriage when, in reality, all he wanted was her money to finance his horrible machine. He let her be poisoned. He let her be haunted. He was responsible for the most horrifying period of her life.

He and his monstrous sister.

And there was that moment, when she caught them together… Edith squeezed her eyes shut and pressed two warm, wet hands against her face. Lucille, coiled around him like a snake on a branch, her hand between his legs. And him, digging his fingers into the pale flesh of her shoulder, allowing her to do it. How could he?

In her weaker moments, Edith thought perhaps Lucille had groomed him to be terrible all his life. She was the older sibling, after all, and her insanity may have manipulated him into silence. He may have feared coming to harm himself. But what sort of hold could she have had over him really, and for how long? He was an adult, free to choose his fate as he saw fit. If mere chance had brought the two of them together in the first place, surely he couldn't have always been under Lucille's thumb.

And then there was the baby… the baby…

Edith's eyes filled with tears. There you go, getting yourself worked up again, she thought, allowing herself a sob. They died at Allerdale Hall. They can't cross oceans. They can't harm you anymore.

She let herself weep until she'd exhausted every muscle in her body, and then lay back against the tub, finally ready to let the water's heat soothe away her tension. Her mind wandered until she found herself drifting through a hazy dream. A voice called her name softly, sweetly.

Edith, my darling, come back to me…

She opened her eyes and gazed up at the ceiling. A chill passed through her. How long have I been asleep? she thought, her mind still fuzzy. The water's freezing. She turned her head.

The chill came from the air in the room, not the water. She wasn't lying in the water at all.

She was lying on top of it.

She screamed. Her body immediately dropped, sending lukewarm water rushing over the edge of the bathtub, spilling it across the floor. "No!" she screamed as she scrambled out and rushed to pull her bathing dress around her. "No!" She ran towards the bathroom door, frantic for escape. Her foot slipped on the wet tile.

Something caught her before she fell. Something - with arms like his. Something brought her gently to her feet even as she twisted and fought against it. It pushed her bathing dress off of her shoulder. She screamed again, flailed her arms, lashing out at whatever it was that held her. "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!"

It released her. She ran to her bedroom, slammed the door and bolted it shut, though she knew no ghost could be kept out by any lock designed by man. She ran to the furthest corner of the room and pressed her back against the wall. "You belong to Allerdale Hall," she whimpered. "You were supposed to stay there."

Two knocks on her bedroom door, and then another two; his knock. She sobbed. Another two knocks. And another two.

"Go away," she whispered. "Please. Please, please go away."

Silence. She waited, expecting a shriek, a light bulb to explode, a violent spectre to tear its way through the wood and set itself upon her. But the silence remained.

He would keep her safe, for now.


	5. Chapter 4

**Heads up - a somewhat erotic chapter**

 

Edith shoved her Underwood aside and sat down at her writing desk with pen in hand. She tore open a drawer and fumbled to retrieve a sheet of her finest personal stationary. Tears in her eyes, she took a deep breath and willed her right hand to stop shaking. Don't alarm him, she thought, or he'll take the first train out to Chicago.

If that happened, she feared, he wouldn't be safe. She started to write.

My dearest Alan,

I hope this letter finds you very well. I'm writing today to let you know that I've decided to end my stay at the Rosalie Villas. I thought the change in scenery would be ideal for finishing my next manuscript, but truth be told, I haven't found Chicago to be all that much different from Buffalo, and there's no sense in staying here when the sights and sounds fail to inspire me the way I'd hoped.

She stared at the page. Alan would never believe it. He'd been to Chicago and knew it for what it was – a city reborn from the ashes of a terrible fire and now pulsing with art and new ideas, a stunning gem. He would know it was just the sort of city Edith would fall in love with if she were given half the chance. She wiped her wet, red face with a handkerchief. The sooner you write it, the sooner you send it, the sooner you can leave.

She continued: There are a few housekeeping items I have to attend to, but once they're all settled I'll be on a train and on my way back home. I don't anticipate it will take more than a month or two. I would very much appreciate it if you could speak to my lodgers on my behalf, to give them enough notice prior to my return.

She let out a sob, pressed the handkerchief to her lips. I'd like to travel again one day, she wrote, perhaps to France or to India. For now, however, I'm a simple Buffalonian who can't wait to see you, my dearest friend. Yours, Edith.

She stood and went to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a very generous glass of sherry, and returned to her desk. Funny, she thought as she sat down again, that's the first thing I've written since I arrived.

The sherry did wonders to calm her nerves. She started a mental list of the next steps she would have to take before leaving Chicago for good. Once morning came around, she would contact her publisher and ask if they had another writer who could take over her residency. She was keen to avoid speaking to the landlord, a skeletal old creep named Stockwell who seemed to despise every woman he laid his milky eyes on. The post office would have to be informed of her change of address, and the bank. Mrs. Williams would try to talk her out of leaving, of course, but that was to be expected from a fan of her ilk. And besides, Edith was used to making her excuses by then.

She sat back in her chair and finished off the sherry. A moment later, she found herself nodding off and rubbed her eyes. Go to bed, she thought. You're useless when you're exhausted. But she couldn't help it; the letter – a testament to prove she was still in control – was too much of a comfort to her. She folded it and pressed it over her heart. He won't hurt you, she thought as her vision went fuzzy. He's dead and gone. He wants to scare you into thinking you're still his, but you're not. You're not.

The warmth she felt when she was sitting with Mrs. Williams returned.

As the cushion softened, as the air filled with his scent once more, he brought that same rush of heat to her buttocks, to between her legs. She gasped, but couldn't bring herself to rise from the chair. "Thomas…" she murmured, squirming against the seat. She dropped the letter on the desk and wrapped her hands around the arm rests. The upholstery was gone; in its place: soft, pale skin that sprouted dark hairs. Thomas' arms.

The chair tilted back with Edith still seated there. Her nightgown slipped over her thighs. She smoothed her thumbs over the arm rests and murmured, "It won't work, it won't work… I know what you're doing…" But when she looked down she saw that the cushion, too, had taken on the smooth, warm texture of his skin, and she started to writhe ardently against him. The memory of their one night together took over her thoughts, obliterated every other hateful, despicable thing he'd done. For a moment, this was the only truth she wanted. The heat between her legs became a steady beat, pulsing against the most delicate part of her, until she cried out and let herself come.

It had been so long, and the delight was so intense, that she drifted off to sleep while still lying there, in those strong, borrowed arms.

Slowly, so as not to disturb her, the chair gave her up, and she drifted into the hallway and up the stairs. She lay in her bed a moment later, with the sheets tucked in around her, and the candle she kept burning on her night table was blown out.

Her letter to Alan floated up above the desk. Invisible fingers unfolded it. Invisible eyes read what was written there. Then the paper crumpled up as though it were being squeezed in a violent fist, and it was hurled into the flames of a fire that lay dying in its place.


	6. Chapter 5

_Of course he’d find it_ , Edith thought as she stood in front of the fireplace the next morning. _I shouldn’t have left it lying out._ She knelt and started picking through the embers, for no other reason than to cover her pale fingers with the ashes her words left behind. I’ll write the letter at the post office, where he won’t be able to destroy it.

She went to the wash closet to complete her toilet, and then returned to her bedroom to dress, imbuing every move she made with as carefree an air as possible. She wondered if he was watching her at that very moment, if he were making note of the expression on her face and whether or not her hands held steady as she buttoned her boots. _Don’t panic_ , she thought. _Don’t make it look like you’re desperate to escape. He can only know what you choose to show him._

_And you certainly showed him last night, didn’t you?_

She leaned over her vanity and gave herself a good long look in the mirror. How could she expect him to leave her alone, when he knew as well as she did how fervidly she’d longed for him, before they were married, after they were married, even after he was dead? _You’ve tied him to your soul,_ she thought, _always thinking about that one night together. You’ve troubled his spirit. He can’t rest, and it’s because of you._

  
She knew enough about ghosts to know what passions drove them to haunt the living. She’d spent her entire life surrounded by spirits and shadows. Thomas was no different from the other spectres who’d come to her. They knew she could see them, could hear them. She was their only link to the lives they used to know – lives they’d left unfinished. She wanted to believe Thomas understood her enough in life to grant her peace when he passed on. But she also knew some ghosts had no other choice but to cling to the souls of those who refused to let them go.

Edith stared at her icy reflection. Part of her wanted to burst into tears and scream out his name, to beg for his forgiveness for dragging his spirit away from Allerdale Hall. Yes, it was a hellish place – a decrepit building destined to sink into the ground, where the red clay could drown its demons - but it was the only home he’d ever known, as much a part of him as his own skin. If it was his fate to die there, to have his spirit carried away on the English wind, then who was she to take that from him?

The other part of her, however – the part of her he’d wronged so heinously – wasn’t so quick to forgive him. Why hadn’t he chosen to chase Lucille’s spirit around the halls she’d turned into his prison? The woman was a monster, tormenting him throughout both their short, tragic lives. She was the one who’d stuck the blade into his brain and sent him to his grave.

And Lucille had taken the same sort of thoughts to her own. Edith’s throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. Lucille had memories of _countless_ nights she’d spent with him. Why hadn’t they been enough to warrant perpetual torment?

 _Get your wits about you_ , she thought, taking a deep breath. _You have to mail that letter. You can worry about exorcising him afterward._ She straightened her back and headed onto the landing. _Keep your head while you’re here, that’s all you need to do. He can only see you. He can’t look into your heart._

She walked down the stairs with her chin high, and carried herself to the front door the way her mother taught her to all those years ago – with grace, and confidence. It will all be over soon enough, she thought before stepping over the threshold and onto the veranda. _Whatever you do for the next few weeks, don’t betray yourself. And no matter what, don’t give in to him again._


	7. Chapter 6

Edith returned to the villa feeling more accomplished than she had in a long while. With letters sent to both Alan and her publisher, she felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She’d soon be back in Buffalo, where, if she couldn’t escape Thomas’ ghost, at least her dear friend could offer her solace.

Buffalo was also home to Doctor Ignatius, the only true medium she’d ever come across. The man could speak to the spirits as though they were in the same room with him, not dwelling on some distant psychic plane. He wasn’t one for cheap parlour tricks – no exploding lightbulbs or shaking tables, no covering a woman’s head with a sheet so that she could speak what were supposedly the words of the dead come back to haunt the living. Doctor Ignatius had no time to exploit the ignorance of the weak and the terrified, which is why no one, outside of a handful of individuals, knew he was a medium at all.

Edith wouldn’t have known either, if her publisher hadn’t convinced her to invite several individuals of high social standing to her home to listen to her read from _Crimson Peak,_ in the hopes that their endorsements would sell even more copies of the novel. She spent the better part of an hour greeting each and every person who arrived, all the while wearing her favourite lilac dress. As she moved across the room, her mother’s spirit whispered in her ear, _Dear child… you look like a picture of a summer’s day..._ When she finally got around to greeting Alan and Ignatius, his guest, she was blushing with embarrassment. “All these people here, just to listen to me read,” she said as she scanned the room. “I can’t believe it.” She smiled at Alan. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’ve earned it,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’re exceptional.”

“It’s almost time,” she said, glancing at the clock. “How do I look?”

“Lovely,” he said. “Perfect.”

“I feel so flushed,” she replied. “I must look an absolute fright.”

“Nonsense,” Ignatius said. “You look like a picture of a summer’s day.”      

Edith stared at him. “Funny,” she said. “My mother would say the very same thing.” A knowing glance or two later, and Ignatius knew he’d been caught.

She soon discovered the doctor wasn’t an avid deceiver at all. “I simply couldn’t think of anything to say to assuage your fears,” he said over a glass of brandy. “So I’m afraid I borrowed your mother’s words, since I felt they described you so aptly.”

“You can speak to the dead, then?” she asked. “Or do they simply speak to you?”

“They do most of the speaking, it’s true,” he replied. “But I occasionally get a word in edgewise. I notice you have the gift too, though you haven’t been able to refine it as of yet. If ever you need my assistance, Miss Cushing, here’s how to get in touch with me.” He handed her a slip of paper, upon which he’d written his telephone number in fine script. “Call any time, day or night. The dead don’t keep the same hours as we do, after all.”

 _I’ll go home, and then I’ll go straight to Ignatius,_ she thought. _He’ll know what to do to put Thomas’ soul to rest._

She removed her hat and coat, then hurried up the stairs to her room, where she tossed them both onto her bed. She wanted out of her town dress and into something less constricting and formal as soon as possible. Dressed only in her underclothes, she brought the dress to the walk-in closet and stepped behind the door to hang it up.

By the time she noticed his scent in the room, it was too late; the door eased back on its hinges and knocked her against the wall. Edith turned as the grain of the wood came within inches of her nose. She gasped as the door pinned her in place. “No, no, _no_!” she cried, slapping her palms against the wood and shoving with all her might. “Thomas!” She pushed and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. Her fear gave way to a sudden and intense anger. “Stop it! Let me go this instant, Thomas! I mean it!” There was no response. “You can’t scare me,” she whispered, easing her way to the edge of the door, thinking she could slip around it and escape. “I’m not afraid of you, Thomas. You know that.” With no reply, she slapped her palms against the wood and resumed her shoving.

The door flushed through and through with Thomas’ warmth. She felt a steady thump – the beating of a man’s heart – deep within the wood. The grain softened until it was hot and smooth; until it felt just as his skin felt, when she finally pressed her body against him that frigid night. “Don’t do this,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against this spectral flesh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t let you go, but I will, I promise. I’ll make everything… right… between us…”

The door began to bounce on its hinges, easing up and then urging itself against her body over and over again. She felt the heat of him fill her groin. A soft whimper escaped her lips; she brought them to the door, where they parted wide enough to allow her tongue to pass through. She ran the tip of it against the spectral flesh, and tasted him.

The spectre passed through her; she felt as though she couldn’t get close enough to him, to the part of her house he now possessed so that he could find a way into her, body and soul, from beyond the grave.

How could she say no? How could she continue to apologize for keeping him with her, when she so desperately wanted him to stay? So she welcomed him, in all his forms, and let him bring her to that same moment of beautiful agony that he’d brought her to years ago, when they were man and wife.

He would be her home – yes - until she found her way home again.


End file.
